


all you are

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Stream of Consciousness, this is just a vent fic sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22542961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: All you are are the stories you tell, the songs you write, the poems and sonnets. It is a fact that burns hot and frightened in your belly, a trapped rabbit ready to run. All you are is a story that you will not always be able to tell. All you are is lyrics, packed neatly and tied off.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	all you are

All you are are the stories you tell, the songs you write, the poems and sonnets. It is a fact that burns hot and frightened in your belly, a trapped rabbit ready to run. All you are is a story that you will not always be able to tell. All you are is lyrics, packed neatly and tied off. 

All you are is a fucking tale, a tail end of a tale, scattered bits of prose in the wind. You’re shaking limbs, you’re eyes that won’t shut even when they should- you try to sleep and it’s clawing at you, at your stomach, at your chest and shaking through your fingers. If you do not sing you are nothing, nothing, nothing. If you do not write you are even less. 

You think: a songbird, mute, clipped wings. You dream of it, sometimes, stare at it in horror, see yourself clipped just the same. It makes you feel sick, makes your hands itch for a pencil, a lute. Your words are frantic, tumbling over themselves. You get strange looks and you try to work it into a song and it doesn’t work, doesn’t work, doesn’t fucking  _ work _ . 

All you are are the stories you tell and you sometimes feel like you will never be enough to tell a story, you will never be enough to find a story, you will never be enough to be a story. You are hollow, painful with the knowledge of that, and you are screaming, but it’s all tucked away neat inside like a song. There must be a song that’s just a scream but you can’t sing it at any taverns because people like songs that make them happy, not ones that make them afraid. 

All you are are the stories you tell, the eyes of people on you. With their gaze you are real, finally: you are solid, flesh and bone, paper and ink. The wood of a lute, the strings. Without it you are half a forgotten phrase. You are sick and frightened and small and the world is so large. You will not last. You have to last, need to last. Dig, dig, dig, hardly make a dent. 

A songbird: mute, clipped wings. You think you could just stay here forever, tucked away in the trees, and there would be no-one to mourn you, and there would be no-one to think of you besides idle passing thoughts, hardly anything. You fall in with forever and think this is it, this is your mark, and then forever is over in half a heartbeat. 

All you are are the stories you tell, and your story is painful and inching, dragging and pathetic and sick, covered in sores. You fall in with forever and forever is over. You loved eternity and it was indifferent. You are tucked away in the trees, and there will be no-one to mourn you, and forever has passed and you are already forgotten. 

You are, you are, you are. 

Shaking hands, plucking out a song. Foolish, useless fucking hope. All you are are the stories you tell and yours is silly and over. No eyes on you now. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a vent. i am so tired. i cant write anything of value
> 
> its 5 am and im in my feels just channeling my inner angsty bard self indulgently pls dont mind me


End file.
